For fruitful argument,—(sweet chicks!)
. . . . . . .
The Jacobin’s head-end we’ve had,
To see his tail, most would be glad.
Of late, Old England was a moon,
To bay and snarl at, night and noon:
That’s over:—now her Queenship seems
A splendid Sun with golden beams.
But pauvre Sanscolotte [sic] is given
A diff’rent lot, by will of heaven.